


What is Trust?

by Lynn Cheshire (orphan_account)



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: April Showers Challenge, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-17
Updated: 2003-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lynn%20Cheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éomer seeks comfort after troubling dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What is Trust?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Ringprov](http://ringprov.livejournal.com/) challenge #2.

Rain was falling from the sky covering Edoras in a grey shadow, streets were flooded and resembled serpents as the water rippled over them. It was more rain than young Gríma could ever remember seeing in his short life of seventeen years. Sheets of rain rippling like wash on the line.

‘Such an amusing way to put it’ he mused, ‘why sheets? Why not blankets? Or even cloaks?’

It was nearing midnight and Gríma knew he should probably be heading off to bed like everyone else had done hours ago. Gríma was in no mood to sleep though; he was quite content to stand on the balcony, watching the rain fall, getting soaked to the bone in the process.

A soft noise behind him startled him out of his contemplations. He whirled around and came face-to-face with Éomer. “Oh, it’s you,” he said in a less than pleased manner. “Come to tease me again are you?” He asked bitterly.

Éomer gave him a half grin and walked over to stand beside him, leaning heavily on the balcony. “Really Gríma,” his voice was laced with poorly concealed amusement, “Yellow is a perfect color for you.”

“I don’t care if it is her birthday, I’m not wearing canary _yellow_ while you get to wear forest green.”

Éomer laughed, “Éowyn has the best intentions in mind, I’m sure.”

Gríma gave him a doubtful look but decided not to argue the subject any further. He turned his face to Éomer and began to watch the way the water ran through his hair like liquid silver, down his youthful yet already toughening face, then to fall freely down to the streets below. Éomer covered in rain was a rather pleasing image. He dreaded to break the comfortable silence between them but could not help himself. “I thought everyone was in bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Éomer replied shortly.

“Had the dream again?” Gríma gave Éomer a searching look, concern burning brightly in his eyes.

Éomer nodded, closing his eyes tightly. “I feel as if a great shadow were approaching me, I keep seeing Théodred, lying cold and lifeless in a tomb, and then the king, withered and dying, holds out a sword with the blade facing me. Blood pours down it from his cut wrist and even his tears turn to blood. He tries to tell me something, something I know is deeply important but all that I hear is a piercing scream ringing in my head and everything turns to darkness.” Éomer was gripping the balcony railing so tightly that his knuckles had turned a milky white.

Gríma reached out and placed a hand over Éomer’s. “It could be only a dream you know...” He began, not believing what he was saying for a moment, knowing that neither did Éomer. He still felt compelled to comfort him.

Éomer’s face softened at the touch. He turned his hand around and grasped Gríma’s tightly. He reopened his eyes and looked down at their entwined fingers. It was funny how a person’s hands could tell a story, what kind of life the person lived, how they spent most of their time, whether they were an artist or a warrior. His and Gríma’s hands told very different stories. His were thick, rough, and callused while Gríma’s were narrow, soft, and ink stained; yet they looked somehow right laced together like that, like they completed each other. Éomer felt a sharp stab of guilt; he hadn’t told his friend his entire dream, how Gríma had whispered poisoned words into Éowyn’s ears, how he had laughed over Théodred’s death and caused the king to turn on him. It was too painful to think of, let alone speak aloud to the only other person who believed it was more than a dream.

Gríma studied Éomer’s face, a flicker of some frail emotion passed over it before vanishing. When it was gone Éomer looked up at him, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then hastily closed it again. “What is it?”

“It’s...it’s nothing.” Éomer replied, a forced smile gracing his troubled face.

Gríma’s free hand went up and touched Éomer’s face gently. “You’d tell me if there was something more, right?” The words fell from his lips, sounding strangely sinister to his ears. He bit his tongue, hopping that Éomer had not noticed the note of malice.

If he did he certainly didn’t show it. He closed his eyes and leaned into Gríma’s touch. He gave his friend’s hand a quick squeeze before releasing it and bringing his arms around Gríma’s waist, pulling him close into a desperate embrace.

Gríma tentatively returned the hug, his arms wrapping around Éomer’s broad frame, one hand reaching up and resting amongst his soaked hair. “Don’t worry,” he whispered softly in Éomer’s ear. “I’ll always be here, you can always trust me.”


End file.
